


the murderer (sitting next to you)

by pprfaith



Series: Wishlist 2017 [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also potentially Dead Dove, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Claudia Stilinski Warning, Community: wishlist_fic, Dark, Gen, Gore, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Murder, Nogitsune, Non-Human Stiles Stilinski, Not Beta Read, Ok it's a first meeting, Past Child Abuse, Prompt Fic, Serial Killer Stiles, Serial Killers, So don't eat, Violent, Well in pre-relationship, dead bodies, future murder husbands, i don't know how to tag, sociopaths in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 12:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12983769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pprfaith/pseuds/pprfaith
Summary: Body disposal is such a drag. Stiles hates it. Lucky for him, there's a solution for his ennui.(Yeah, it's Peter.)





	the murderer (sitting next to you)

**Author's Note:**

> For rhymesofblue, who asked for magical Stiles and serial killer AU. It took me a few tries, but I do so adore this prompt. If I ever get to the bottom of my project pile, I might continue this. Thank you for the prompt!
> 
> (Look, I managed to squeeze another title out of Twenty One Pilots' _Heathens_.)

+

Dead bodies are disgusting. 

Which, yeah, is sort of a given, really, but Stiles would like it noted for posterity. Human bodies past their expiration date are kind of gross. Limp like an overcooked noodle and sort of waxy to the touch and spilling bodily fluids everywhere. Stiles is peculiar about which bodily fluids he likes where, okay? 

And dead people’s all over? So not his style. 

“Which,” he informs the not-yet-stiff corpse at his feet with a kick to the ribs, “is why you’re going on the burn pile.”

Ennis, predictably, doesn’t answer. Although he’d have a hard time with that even if her were alive because Stiles kind of cut his tongue out. He was being very annoying toward the end there and he just didn’t want to listen to the Fount o’ Bullshit anymore. 

“Don’t complain, you deserved way worse.”

Ennis doesn’t disagree. 

Fabulous. 

Crouching down, Stiles fumbles through his jacket pockets for – oh, there it is. He pulls out the little jar, unscrews the lid and dips his middle finger inside. It comes back with a thick glob of white-ish green paste attached to it. 

“Snot smear,” Stiles jeers as he leans over to draw a few very sigils on the dead man’s lips and eyelids and inside the shells of his ears. 

“See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,” he mutters as he works, trying to keep his breathing shallow because the paste he’s using is nasty. The first time he made it, he ruined three batches because he dripped tears in it from crying so hard at the fumes. These days, he uses an honest to god gas mask to make this shit. 

So worth it, though. “In this case, actually, see no Stiles, hear no Stiles, speak no Stiles. Whatever will be left of you at the end of the night will be incapable of giving even the slightest hint toward me. I’m literally binding your corpse to keep my identity secret. You’re too dead to appreciate it, and when you were alive, you were too much of a meathead, but that’s some delicate fucking magic right there, Mr. Big Alpha on Campus.”

He finishes the last sigil, wipes his fingers on Ennis’ bloody shirt and screws the lid back on the jar. Tight. 

It wanders back into his jacket and Stiles straightens, grabs Ennis’ limp hand, no longer concerned about leaving trace evidence. He’s always very, very careful up until this point, because Stiles, of all people, knows that plans are made to be fucked with and how the police catch most killers. He has his snot smear, sure, and he has his magic, but what if he doesn’t have time to cast it? What if he gets discovered one day? What if? Better to be careful. 

He didn’t get this far by not being careful. 

Although… okay. Willful blindness on the part of law enforcement back home probably played a part, because even after his dad died, the Beacon Hills’ Sheriff’s department never stopped thinking of Stiles at the gap-toothed little shit they used to entertain by letting him pick their handcuffs for kicks. 

If his dad hadn’t been who he was, if Stiles had grown up elsewhere, he would probably have gotten caught before he turned legal. But his dad was the Sheriff and Stiles did grow up as his son and if people noticed how he was always just a little off, too slow to smile, too quick to laugh at someone’s misfortune, they looked at his father and they swallowed their comment. 

Dragging a corpse through the woods, Stiles idly wonders if anyone’s seen the news on his crimes and connected the dots, yet. 

He honestly doesn’t think so. It’s been a decade and thousands of miles and he always makes sure not to pick anyone he has a personal connection to. No, this is strictly business. 

Ennis was a bad man and bad men need to be put down. Put away. One of those. Stiles is really only doing the world a favor while keeping his more primal urges in check and the fox content and dormant. 

It’s a nice deal, fun all around, satisfactory for all parties. 

“Well, except you guys,” he allows as he gives one last heave to sort of drag-slide the corpse into the center of a small clearing. He was by yesterday to clear away most debris, dig a shallow ditch and store away a – 

“There you are,” he tells the can of gas as he finagles it off the branch he stuck it on yesterday. He uncaps, he pours, he makes sure not to smudge the sigils. 

Once that’s done, too, he takes a few steps back, snaps his fingers once and watches a spark of vivid orange fire dance across the distance between him and Ennis and _catch_. The gasoline goes up in a great snarl of flame before settling into a steady burn. Stiles adds a few bundles of herbs – also stored in the trees – to the fire to magically mask the smell of cooking werewolf and then settles in for a long wait. 

His magic can keep the fire burning long after the gasoline is gone and the corpse would extinguish on its own, but it can’t hasten the process. He’ll be here all night. 

Still. It’s done. He got away with it. Again. 

Another dead monster. Inside his chest, below his heart, the darkness curls up, a satisfied beast, a sated predator. Enough pain. Enough chaos. He allows himself a smile, a slow, lazy thing, full of teeth.

Ennis thought he was clever, too. Tried to fight his way out, at first, all red eyes and claws, until he realized that Stiles isn’t as helpless, isn’t as human as he looks. Played docile then and tried to slip away, to get loose and run, to bargain. Tried to lie and tried to appeal to a humanity Stiles hasn’t possessed since he was eight years old and pressed the pillow tight over his mother’s face until she stopped. Until she couldn’t hurt him again, couldn’t scream _monster_ at him again. 

(Some people are born like and some are made and Stiles will never know which category he is, because the only thing lurking in his early childhood memories is his mother, hissing filth in his ear as she tries to drown him in the bathtub.)

So it goes. 

He scuttles backwards until he hits a tree trunk and settles in, keeping only the basest part of his focus on the fire, just enough to feed it energy and keep it steady. Ditches aren’t all that conductive to keeping up a decent blaze, but he needs the ashes, so he can’t have them blown all over. Shallow ditch and extra magic it is. 

Apart from that, he has nothing to do, so he starts fiddling with his phone. Plays games until the battery is about to die, then tucks it away. He can still make out something vaguely human shaped in the flames. 

“Screw this. I’m bored. You’re boring, you asshole. You were boring in life, with all the snarling and posturing that turned into begging within, like, an hour, and you’re still boring now and I’m tired and I want a shower. Killing is hard work, you know? Especially with you fucking wolves. You come back from way too much damage.” He huffs to himself. “Well, guess who won’t be coming back from this? Ding, ding, ding. Two hundred points to the dead fucker in the ditch.”

Ennis keeps merrily crackling away. 

Stiles smacks his head back against the tree. “So, who should I go after next? Kali or Deucalion? I think Kali. I’ve heard things about Duke, his disappearance will make waves. Better to get your psycho sweetheart out of the way first, huh?”

It’s how Stiles finds his victims. Catches a bad guy, makes him think he’ll get off free if he tells Stiles about anyone he knows who’s worse than him- or her, no need to be heteronormative – and then kills them anyway. 

What? It’s not his fault they’re all dumb enough to expect the serial killer who kidnapped and tortured them to _not lie_! 

It’s potentially dangerous, killing along interpersonal connections like that, but Stiles figures that if anyone ever cottons on to his pattern (and with magic, hiding his tracks is easy), they deserve to get a shot at him. Only a shot, mind you, but whatever. It’s fair play, or something like it. 

Besides, it’s not like he really cares. He’s not suicidal, likes being alive a hell of a lot, actually, but he’s aware that the way he chooses to spend his life is not conductive to old age, let’s just say. He just doesn’t give a fuck. 

It’s the base flaw in his coding: he just doesn’t care. Lost the ability a long time ago, if he ever had it. His passenger egging him on from the back of his mind hasn’t made it any better. 

Worse, actually, because Stiles is pretty sure that, in the four years between killing his mom and stumbling across a dead tree in the woods, he did care about some things. His dad’s diet and that one kid at school. His name was Scott and he was a pathetic, adorable puppy and Stiles kept him around because it was a little like having a pet and it gave him an excuse to beat up all the other kids when they were mean to Scottie and also, Scott had the best lunches. 

… Okay, so maybe he didn’t care even then. 

Whatever. He’s zen about it. He recognizes his flaws and he’s reconciled them. 

Doesn’t mean he isn’t shit bored now. And he has an early shift at work tomorrow, too. Eugh. 

He kicks his heels, picks at a few fallen leaves. 

“Think Kali will put up a better fight than you?” He asks, idly, and then almost jumps the fuck out of his skin when a voice actually answers him, “Probably. Ennis here wasn’t the brightest wolf in the pack.”

His heart actually, legitimates skips a beat as Stiles shouts in surprise, flails, falls backwards and then almost elbows himself in the face in an effort to sort out which way is up. 

At least, that’s what it _looks_ like. He really is freaked the fuck out, but the falling and flailing conveniently end with him half-covered behind the tree he was using as a backrest a moment ago, on one knee, ready to pounce. One hand is in his pocket, wrapped around various useful odds and ends (among them a gun, because bullets hurt no matter what you are), the other ready to snap and call the fire to him. 

“What the hell?” he shouts, because pretending ignorance is always a good way to feel people out. 

The man at the edge of the clearing raises an unimpressed eyebrow. He’s older than Stiles, dark hair, villain-goatee and electric blue eyes. He’s also obscenely well-built and wearing clothes far too expensive to go tromping through the woods in. Dark shades, though, all of it. Good for blending. Or hiding blood stains. 

If Stiles had to guess, and he loves guessing, this guy has fangs and claws and likes to howl at the full moon. He also knows who’s burning in Stiles’ fire pit. 

He smirks. “Oh, let’s not play dumb, shall we? We both know who that is,” he waves a dismissive hand at the fire, “and that you’re the one who put him there. Don’t worry, I didn’t like him very much.”

Stiles drops the startled deer act but doesn’t move out of his crouch. “How’d you find this place?”

The wolf taps his nose and Stiles quietly curses. He really needs to find a better way to erase scent trails of other people. The snot smear only takes care of his own scent. For Ennis’ scent, he needs Ennis’ ashes, which is inconvenient for two reasons. A, it obviously doesn’t work on living, non-crispy people and B, until Ennis _is_ ashes, anyone and their friendly neighborhood werewolf can still track him by scent.

Hence, inconvenient werewolf. 

Fuck it all. 

Slowly, Stiles climbs to his feet. “Now that we’ve established that you guys are freaky stalkers,” he drawls, “what do you want?”

Wolvie waves his hand again. “Oh, nothing really. I’ve been watching for a while and I have to say, you made an interesting tableau, playing games and chattering away while a man you murdered in cold blood burns to ashes only a few feet away. Tell me, sweetheart, did you pull the wings off flies as a child?”

He asks it in a smooth, cajoling voice, sounding almost eager for the answer.

In the back of Stiles’ mind, Fox sits up and pays attention. Too close attention, he realizes when the wolf’s gaze briefly flicks away from Stiles’ face to the empty shadows behind him. Well, not so empty anymore. 

Stiles raises one of his hands at waist height out of old habit, and something smooth, half fur, half scales, slides under it. He catches a flash of dark eyes, a bite of teeth, a warning snarl, and then the sensation of a physical presence melts back into the shadows, tails swishing, to curl up inside his skull again. 

Interesting. Usually, the fox takes pains not to be noticed by others. 

But this… this was the kitsune equivalent of taking off your underwear, tying it to a stick and waving with like a flag. Flashy. Attention drawing. 

Still, it served a purpose. The wolf’s expression has turned from condescending curiosity to something very akin to hunger. Stiles smirks, head cocked to one side, a little something vulpine in his movements. 

“I did far worse than that,” he confesses, vaguely, and yes, yes, there it is. Beneath the hunger and the curiosity, beneath the thin veneer of human skin and even wolf skin. Something that looks a lot like the thing Stiles sees in the mirror when he doesn’t bother putting on a face first. 

It’s a yawning abyss in place of a human soul, a bone deep absence of anything remotely capable of emotion. Nihilism given shape, maybe. Or maybe that’s just a serial killer’s attempt to pretty up the war zone inside his head and the hole in his heart. 

What the fuck ever. 

Like calls to like, is the thing, and Stiles sees himself in the wolf, the shape of him, the glint of his teeth and the light of his eyes. Normal people don’t exactly make casual conversation over a burning corpse, a pleased little smile on their faces.

“He a buddy of yours?” he asks, far too late, hitching a thumb at the fire.

“Not quite, no. He and I had… a bone to pick with each other, let’s say. Sadly, it appears you got there first.” A cutesy pout should not look this attractive on a fully grown male. “I brought toys and everything.”

He pulls a vial out of his pocket, filled with a thick, gloopy liquid. Even without the faint purple glow it gives off, Stiles would recognize the wolfsbane solution. For a wolf to be willing to use that on another wolf…

“What did he do? Screw your sister?”

Outwardly, the wolf doesn’t react, but something about him sharpens. Tenses. 

“My nephew, actually,” he confesses. “And they only screwed him in the metaphorical sense.” The way he says it… yeah. Nephew’s dead. As a doornail. 

Revenge, then. 

It tends to make people sloppy, not to mention stupid, but Stiles is very, very bored and the void seems to approve and also, he’s always been bad at impulse control. He likes pretty things and dangerous things and not boring things and this guy is all of that. 

So instead of drawing his gun and getting rid of the witness, he shrugs, drops back down to the ground and pats the empty space next to him, inviting the dead-inside strange werewolf to play.

There is a long pause while the wolf considers him, somewhat incredulous. “That’s it?” he asks.

“You weren’t lying,” Stiles points out. 

“I’m a very good liar.”

He shrugs. “I can still tell.” Technically, his passenger can, but, you know. Splitting hairs. Also, that thing again where he doesn’t care all that much what happens to him.

“What guarantees that I won’t go to the police first thing tomorrow and tell them everything I saw tonight?”

Another shrug. “Nothing. But, you know, if I’m going after the rest of Ennis’ pack, I thought maybe you’d want in?”

“You don’t know me.” I sounds a little like the guy’s playing devil’s advocate here rather than trying to actually talk Stiles out of giving him some measure of trust, and what’s with that, anyway? He’s not some kid needing a talk about stranger danger. 

So he makes bedroom eyes while he inwardly cackles at the absurdity of the monster her just invited for playtime worrying about his gullibility. “Then let me get to know you!”

There’s a drawn-out pause. Then, “Absurd. You’re completely absurd and possibly insane.”

“And hot. Don’t forget hot.” He’s already less bored. This is fun. Also, the guy hasn’t once pointed out the risk to himself. Stiles might try to kill him after all. It’s almost like he… doesn’t care. 

The wolf slumps. Studies the fire. Shrugs. “I’m Peter Hale,” he offers, belatedly, and oh. 

Oh. 

Stiles heard about that, about the fire that ravaged most of the pack a decade ago and then, just as they recovered, just as they got their shit together, the alpha pack came rolling through, made the new Hale alpha kill his entire pack against his will and then slaughtered him too, when the loss drove him insane. 

He has a pretty good guess, suddenly, who the nephew was.

“Stiles,” he answers, pats the ground in invitation again. 

Peter skirts the fire pit and then, with a sigh, sits next to Stiles. There is a long pause, before the older man turns to Stiles and says, very quietly, “I’m going to hurt them very badly before they die.”

Below his heart, something stirs, excited. Stiles grins. 

“Deal,” he says and means it. 

Ennis, as usual, has nothing to add.

+


End file.
